Janet's breast
Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
It wasn't the best time for Max to tell us that he was getting a sex change. It was worse that he already got his breasts agumented.
"I want to feel more like the woman within," he told us, diamond hard nipples poking through his t-shirt. Max was speaking in his singning voice, high pitched falsetto. He didn't sound like a woman as much as he did a grotesque parody. Dane Enda for the pre-teen set. We had other problems too. We were an internationally recognized band. Mystique. A pre-fabricated boy band. I stumbled into my position as the "Surly-One" via hand handling, the fluffer's job in the hand modeling industry. My manager said that being in a boyband was like modeling, except that the drugs would be better and there'd be less homosexuals and more young girls. This was appealing. So I went for it.
Max supposed to be non-threatening and androgenous. Parents like that. Max had broken the Trust that our producers had talked about by pumping himself full of silicone and whoring himself to the roadies.
"I'm gonna ask a guy to titty fuck me on stage tonight," Max told us. I wasn't sure what had snapped in his little brain of his. You could hear his synapses burn and smell it fry as he passes by, lording his fantastic tits near us. There was a wiff of genius in the air. And so we went on stages and broke the brains of ten thousand girls. Hand modeling looked good after that.
It wasn't the best time for Max to tell us that he was getting a sex change. It was worse that he already got his breasts agumented.
"I want to feel more like the woman within," he told us, diamond hard nipples poking through his t-shirt. Max was speaking in his singning voice, high pitched falsetto. He didn't sound like a woman as much as he did a grotesque parody. Dane Enda for the pre-teen set. We had other problems too. We were an internationally recognized band. Mystique. A pre-fabricated boy band. I stumbled into my position as the "Surly-One" via hand handling, the fluffer's job in the hand modeling industry. My manager said that being in a boyband was like modeling, except that the drugs would be better and there'd be less homosexuals and more young girls. This was appealing. So I went for it.
Max supposed to be non-threatening and androgenous. Parents like that. Max had broken the Trust that our producers had talked about by pumping himself full of silicone and whoring himself to the roadies.
"I'm gonna ask a guy to titty fuck me on stage tonight," Max told us. I wasn't sure what had snapped in his little brain of his. You could hear his synapses burn and smell it fry as he passes by, lording his fantastic tits near us. There was a wiff of genius in the air. And so we went on stages and broke the brains of ten thousand girls. Hand modeling looked good after that.
posted by Rob at 1:33 a.m.
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